


Prompt #9

by Sijglind



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Oblivious Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon prompt: Dean didn't think Sam knew anything about this stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prompt #9

**Author's Note:**

> [Give me a prompt](http://incestuousfricklefrackle.tumblr.com/ask/) on my [tumblr](http://incestuousfricklefrackle.tumblr.com/).

**Cooking**

Dean is not a great cook. He’s maybe an _okay_ cook, since it’s not like you can create three course menus with a pack of mac  & cheese, Lucky Charms and Pop Tarts. Nothing that would get you Michelin stars anyway. But it doesn’t really matter, because Sammy doesn’t complain and Dean by now knows how to make spaghetti and meatballs and a damn good burger that none of those fancy-ass restaurants could make any better than him anyway.

Their diet is maybe not the healthiest, since it’s mostly consists of stuff from the can, frozen meals and diner food. Well, not that it hurts them. They’re not getting fat or anything with the way Dad makes them run a couple miles every other day—okay, maybe Sammy still hasn’t lost all of his baby fat, but that doesn’t really count.

Anyway, the point is, Dean isn’t unhappy with the food they get to eat. He doesn’t have some refined palate or however you wanna call it, he doesn’t need all that stuff. Vegetables are overrated. Fucking bunny food. He’s a man, not some goddamn critter, so he’s gonna eat like a man. And Sammy? Sammy’s a growing boy, needs all the protein and carbs he can get, or else he’ll stay small forever.

At least, that’s what Dean tells him when Sam decides he wants to cook from now on.

“C’mon, Sam. You’re only twelve. What do you know about cooking anyway?” Dean asks when Sam starts unpacking grocery bags in their rental’s kitchen. Well, he says kitchen, it’s more a stove, a cupboard with a sink and an old, wobbly fridge that’s so loud during the night Dean has seriously considered buying earplugs.

“Almost thirteen,” Sam corrects, unperturbed, and withdraws a cucumber and some lettuce from the brown paper bags. Dean eyes both suspiciously.

“And I know more about cooking than you,” Sam says and points the cucumber at Dean, who raises his hands.

“Fine, whatever,” he says and gets out of Sam’s way because he’s found the cutting knife by know and starts attacking an onion with vicious determination. “But don’t come running to me when the kitchen catches fire.”

Dean busies himself with, well something, leafs through Sam’s copy of To Kill a Mockingbird—ugh, he remembers having to read that one—and turns on the TV, flipping through the channels aimlessly. There’s nothing on really that can hold his attention for more than a minute, because he’s keeping one ear on the sounds drifting over from the kitchen; the clack, clack, clack of the knife as Sam dissects the rabbit food, the quiet melody he’s humming under his breath. Sam curses, once, but it’s not very loud or frustrated, and he doesn’t come running to Dean either, clutching one of his small, chubby fingers and whining that he cut himself.

Well, so far, so good.

Half an hour in and Dean can smell baking meat, and it smells fucking delicious. He can actually feel his mouth water. When he calls out for Sam and asks him what he’s making, Sam, smug little bastard, won’t tell him and gives some cryptic response.

Another fifteen minutes or so and Dean smells tomato sauce happily cooking away on the stove. He gets up and makes some excuse about wanting only a glass of water, but Sam shoots him a glare that makes Dean stop where he’s standing, and next thing he knows Sam’s hurling a water bottle at his head. Dean, because he’s awesome like that, dodges and catches it before it can do any harm. But he got the message. So he sits back down on the worn-out sofa, kicks his feet up and watches some bullshit on TV.

One and a half hour after Sam has started slaughtering the onion, he finally calls Dean into the kitchen, and Dean nearly takes a step back, he’s so surprised about what he’s seeing. Sam has set the table, and there are even napkins and a honest-to-god flower in a water glass set between the two plates.

Dean doesn’t know what to say. It’s kinda. _Adorable_.

Next to him, Sam is fidgeting, fingers fumbling restlessly at the seam of the oven mitts.

“Um,” he says and gestures to one of the chairs. “Sit down, I’ll just get the meatloaf out.”

Dean, still kinda speechless, sits down, and he needs until Sam returns with the meatloaf to find his voice and composure again.

“Awww, Samantha, how nice,” he teases and grins, looking Sam up and down, standing in front of him with the steaming loaf pan. “You just need and apron and I can call you wifey.”

Sam flushes and ducks his head to hide it, but Dean can still see it where his neck turns adorably pink, and he chuckles, leaning back in his chair, full of satisfaction.

“Shut up,” Sam mumbles and puts the pan down on the table with more force than necessary. Dean licks his lips and nods, still grinning. Sam might know how to cook, but Dean still knows how to make his little brother blush like the little girl he sometimes is.

 

**Fixing a PC**

Sam’s a nerd. It’s a fact, okay. He always was, is, and will be until the end of time. Even when one of those sonsofbitches finally gets to them and they have no Get-out-of-Heaven-free cards left to use, Sam will spend his days in paradise reading, and having nerdgasms over lore and other bullshit.

So, yeah, Sam’s a nerd, and it must be a law of nerddom to know how to handle a PC, right? So, not surprising that Sam knows on which porn sites Dean’s been—not that he has anything to hide, he’s a healthy young man, right—and where to do his research, but actually fixing one of the things? Well, who would’a thought.

So when Sam has to fix the laptop the first time, Dean’s not proud. It might, kinda, be his fault—okay, yeah, he has the balls to admit that, but damn that _Busty Asian Beauties Extreme_ ad did look really good. And hiding a virus like that in porn ads is just plain evil to begin with, dude.

“We need a new laptop,” Dean tells Sam over breakfast. He thought he might manage to catch Sam off guard and get him to simply accept the fact without too many questions. He even thought for a bit about the right moment—when Sam’s distracted by skimming the newspaper for a new case and before he’s got half of his first coffee inside him. Well, it doesn’t quite work.

Sam looks up, narrows his eyes at Dean, who stuffs another piece of bacon into his mouth.

“What’s wrong with our old one?” Sam asks. He’s closed the newspaper and neatly folded it, and is now lacing his fingers on top of the front page.

Dean shrugs, nonchalantly, and clears his throat.

“Dunno. ‘s just acting… weird.”

“ _Weird_ ,” Sam repeats, both eyebrows raised.

Dean nods. “Yeah, dude. Weird.”

Bitchface #5: I Know You’re Lying, Dean, Stop Trying, slips onto Sam’s face and he reaches into his backpack, takes out the laptop. Dean cringes but doesn’t say anything, keeps himself busy with his food instead. After a moment, he clears his throat, gestures towards the silver plastic casing.

“I think you shouldn’t do that here, Sam.”

Bitchface #7: Don’t Try To Tell Me What To Do, I Know Better, makes an appearance—Dean knows it best from Sam’s teenage years, where it was at its peak, being used at least five times a day, especially when Dad was home and the both of them butted their giant, stubborn heads.

Dean raises his hands in defeat and shrugs.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And there’s Bitchface #1: Are You Kidding Me. Dean clears his throat and ducks his head to hide his grin. Well, Sammy’s in for a surprise that’s for sure.

Sam opens the laptop, boots it up, waits, flips it shut immediately, looks around with wide eyes like a deer in headlights. Two tables behind Sam, a family is having their breakfast and when Dean nods in their direction, Sam turns and blanches.

Dean tries his hardest to stifle a laugh.

The mother is glaring over at Sam with disapproval written all over her face, her lips tightly pinched into a small line. Next to her, her eleven-year-old son looks like he’s just seen god.

“Same, little buddy,” Dean mumbles, because even if the fucking virus makes the laptop useless, it does provide the owner with a nice pair of perfect boobs to look at every time he turns it on.

Sam calls for the check with a blush high on his cheeks, making its way down his neck.

He doesn’t talk to Dean when they leave for the next town right after, keeping silent half of the way, furiously typing away on the laptop like a hacker from a 90’s movie, frowning in concentration. Dean cranks up the radio and starts singing, his fingers drumming out the beat on the steering wheel.

After an hour of typing and clicking, Sam finally looks at Dean and turns the laptop towards him.

“Done,” he says with a tired sigh and cracks his neck. Dean glances at the screen, sees their usual desktop returned to its former usefulness.

“Didn’t know you could do that,” he says and grins. Sam might be a nerd, but he’s also an awesome little brother, sometimes.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m full of surprises,” Sam says and rolls his eyes. Then he does something with his face that Dean can old describe as a grin-bitchface combo. It looks very smug and not nice at all. “And know what I can also do? Block every porn site on every browser you could probably download.”

Okay, scratch that. Sam’s not awesome.

Sam’s a little shit.

 

**Flirting**

Okay, this is fucking weird. Honestly, he feels like Han Solo must have when Leia kissed Luke in Episode IV. If Luke was Han’s brother, that is, and not Leia’s, and Leia was a hot waitress, and—alright, you get the point.

Anyway, there are strange things going on, because there’s a hot waitress flirting with his little brother, and, wonder of wonders, Sam is actually flirting back. _And_ doing a halfway decent job at that.

Weird.

And even weirder is the fact that the waitress, Sandra, Sabrina, Sarah, whatever, something with S, has been giving Dean the cold shoulder since they walked into the bar, even when Dean offered her his most charming smile. Dean doesn’t understand it. This smile has always been helpful with the women before. The number of those who could resist it maybe adds up to a handful.

Sarah laughs, high-pitched and too loud, and Dean snaps back to the present. Sam is smiling in a way that comes somewhat close to ‘disarming’, shows off his dimples, and she pokes one of them with a giggle. Like a freaking elementary school girl.

“Aw, they’re adorable,” she says and giggles again, blinking too much. Dean resists the urge to gag. He grimaces instead and sips on his beer. Not like he’s pouting or anything. Sam really needs to relax a bit, have some fun, get fucking laid for once. He bets Sammy will less annoying when he finally gets rid of his blue balls. A man has his needs, and if he doesn’t take care of it, he gets bitchy. Easy as that.

But, honestly, couldn’t he have picked someone else but Sabrina? The woman has no class. At all. Not that _Dean_ would mind, but Sam’s always going on and on about how important it is to have _a connection_ with your partner, and Dean seriously doubts Sam could have any with Sandra over here.

“I was wondering,” Samantha says. And she doesn’t do it like a normal person would, no, she draws out the I until it turns to something along the lines of wonderiiiing—which is fucking annoying, c’mon, are you still in high school—and then bites her lip, peeking at Sam shyly through her bangs.

“Yes,” Sam asks with a smile. Dean stares, because hello, dude’s suddenly got game, when the fuck did that happen? Sam’s smile is soft and inviting, and he doesn’t look away from her face, gives her all of her attention.

Dean is, to say the least, surprised.

And impressed.

If only Sophie wasn’t so goddamn annoying. She giggles now, bites her bottom lip a bit more until it’s red and shiny. Sam turns the brightness of his smile up a notch.

“Um,” Sally begins, and then gets interrupted by the barkeeper shouting her name—turns out it’s Sondra—and she pouts, bounces off with a last, “sorry, gotta go, call me if there’s _anything_ ,” thrown over her shoulder.

Sam looks until she’s reached the bar counter and starts discussing something with the irritated barkeeper, and then finally, finally, turns his attention back on Dean. He’s still smiling a bit, but it quickly fades when Dean raises both of his eyebrows.

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean says, and Sam frowns.

“What?”

Dean snorts. It should be fucking obvious.

“Way to go,” Dean says and takes another sip from his bottle, nods at Sondra, who’s currently leaning in over a table to serve a group of locals their drinks, successfully showing off her impressive cleavage. Sam follows Dean’s gaze and then looks back towards him. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by Sondra’s behavior, doesn’t even look amused or anything, just kinda curious as he takes a long, scrutinizing look at Dean.

Dean shifts in his seat, clears his throat. With the way Sam’s looking at him, he feels like a freaking bug under a microscope.

“What,” he snaps, and Sam grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Dean takes another sip from his beer when Sam doesn’t answer right away, and then nearly chokes when Sam finally says, “you’re _jealous_!”

“What? No!” Dean chokes out and coughs, pounds his fist against his chest. “Am not!”

Sam is laughing now.

“Dude, you totally are!”

Dean looks around, there are already a couple people looking at them curiously, and he leans in over the table to hiss, “Dude, stop laughing.”

Sam’s laughing turns into giggles, and it takes him some time to calm down completely, time which Dean uses to glare at him over the mouth of his bottle.

“You so were,” Sam says between giggles.

“No way, dude,” Dean says.

No _fucking_ way.

 

**Kissing**

Dean has seen Sam kiss someone before, alright. There was that Sarah chick after Jess’ death and Sam joined him back on the road. Dean couldn’t help but sneak a glance when Sam kissed her goodbye. It didn’t look like Sam was doing a bad job or anything, but it was rather chaste for Dean’s tastes. Sam didn’t take long before he climbed back into the car and told Dean to drive, slipping into his emo brooding mood for the rest of the drive. There were others, too, like that werewolf girl, but Dean didn’t actually want to stay and watch the show.

Anyway, so Dean thought Sam was maybe an okay kisser, from what he’s seen.

Dean himself, well, he’s a master when it comes to kissing. Over the time, he’s perfected it, turned it into an art form. Give him five minutes with a woman and he’ll make even the most determined swoon with using only his mouth. He didn’t think Sam would ever be able to come close to that.

Well, he was wrong. Kinda. Maybe.

Fuck, who cares. These are all details, and he doesn’t have time to think about stuff like that when Sam’s kissing him.

No, for real, Sam is kissing him.

How that happened? Fuck if Dean knows. All he remembers is that they’d been fighting only moments before, with a great deal of shouting and yelling included. One of the ugly bedside lamps didn’t survive when Dean threw it, and Sam might have kicked a chair at Dean.

After that, it gets kinda blurry, but Dean knows two things with certainty.

First, Sam is kissing him.

Second, he’s enjoying it.

Yeah, shocking.

There was a what-the-fuck moment, but that one didn’t last long, and instead quickly turned into a what-the-fuck-this-is-kinda-nice moment and then into a holy-fuck-I’m-kissing-my-brother moment, which subsequently turned into an I’m-kissing-my-brother-and-I-don’t-want-him-to-stop moment.

Apparently the Winchesters have reached a new level on the fucked-up scale, go figure.

But then again, who cares?

Because—he’d never admit that out loud, but—Sam’s lips feel really nice on his own. More than, actually. They feel fucking perfect. Well, fuck, who would’a thought.

Sam uses just the right amount of pressure to make it hungry and demanding, but not overwhelming, and when he licks into Dean’s mouth it makes Dean feel like he’s the most delicious thing Sam’s ever tasted. Even though Dean had a pretty mean burger with way too much onions for lunch.

But fuck, fuck, fuck, this feels fucking good.

Sam keeps on making these small, breathy, needy noises that go straight to Dean’s cock—and isn’t that a thought, he’s going to hell, again—and keeps on kissing Dean like it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

By now, their lips are slick with spit, and it’s maybe a bit messy, maybe a bit sloppy, but Dean has fucking stopped caring, because Sam tastes of salad and frothy coffee, but also something else, something indescribable underneath, something perfect and right.

Dean’s anything but a sap, but it feels like they were made for each other, and they kinda were, after all, they’re freaking soulmates, right?

Which reminds him, kissing his brother is maybe one of the least fucked-up things he’s ever done.

Well, fuck all that anyway, just fuck it all to hell, because Sam’s kissing him like his life depends on it, rubbing against him like a horny teenager, making all these wonderful, addicting noises, and Dean couldn’t care less about what the rest of the world thinks.

Because this, this is.

Well, he has no fucking idea, but it feels way too good to stop.

So he tangles his hand in Sam’s hair, puts the other on Sam’s side and rolls them over so that Sam is now beneath him on the bed, Dean straddling his hips. And fuck, he looks fucking beautiful with his flushed face and blown eyes, black swallowing hazel irises until they’re not more than a ring of color. With the way Sam’s looking up at Dean, it feels like he’s the only thing in the world right now, like the Apocalypse could start right this second, and neither of them would notice.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, gazes locked with his brother, and he swears he could fall forward, into that hungry blackness, and be swallowed whole.

Sam has the gall to chuckle, hands coming up to Dean’s hips.

“Not yet,” Sam says and grins, and Dean wants to hit him.

He kisses him instead.

 

**Sex**

It sounds like a freaking cliche, but Sam’s a beast in bed. First time Sam rode him, Dean swears he actually passed out for a couple seconds—he’d never admit it, but yeah, it’s the truth.

Because Sam’s like a fucking hurricane, it’s like flicking a switch with him. Outside the bedroom, he’s all wide smiles and six feet four of understanding and comfort, but when Dean get’s him riled up, Sam takes him to new highs.

Sam will kneel above Dean and fuck himself open on his own fingers, while Dean urges him on, his own cock so hard it’s fucking painful. Then he will slide down onto Dean’s cock and ride him like a fucking rodeo, all the while screaming until he’s hoarse.

And that’s a sight. Dean never really had an interest in any men before—or maybe but—Sam, even though he could tell if a guy was handsome or not, but seeing Sam, over or beneath him just takes his breath away. Not only because of the usual amount or bodily work sex needs, but because he looks like the fucking epitome of sin when Dean fucks him.

Six feet four of firm muscles and tanned, sweat-slick, glistening skin, writhing beneath Dean, pink, parted, lips, shiny with spit, a long, drooling cock, a halo of dark hair around his head, eyes dark and blown and hungry, heavy-lidded and glassy with lust, a flush that works it’s way up from his chest to his high cheekbones. An arching back, hips pushing back into each thrust, strong legs wrapped around Dean’s waist or thrown over his shoulders, tendons and muscles moving under skin.

Sam’s hot around him, feels freaking perfect, clenching around his dick and circling his hips.

Sam’s a power bottom—yeah, Dean did his research, so what—and Dean enjoys every fucking minute of it. Since this whole thing with them started, they’ve barely left the bunker or the motel rooms, starting to undress each other whenever they’ve locked a door behind themselves.

Also, who would’ve thought he’d get the best blow job of his life from his little brother?

Dean didn’t because if he had, he would’ve kissed Sam ages ago.

It’s perfect. Better than anything Dean’s ever had with any woman. There are no long, drawn-out talks because they already know what the other wants, can feel it on an almost instinctual level, and it’s so fucking hot Dean get’s a hard-on whenever he dares thinking about it for even a second. No talk about feelings, even though Sam’s usually big on that front, because they just _know_ how the other feels when it comes to this. Dean will never use the word boyfriend, or lover, or partner, not only because it sounds all so weird, but because what they have goes above and beyond of any of these labels. And that has nothing to do with the DNA they’re sharing.

Sam’s his brother, and at the same time, he’s not. There’s not other word that fits, nothing to describe what they have. So that’s it, Sam’s his brother, they’re brothers who love each other in a different way than ‘normal’ people maybe think they should, but Sam and Dean weren’t anywhere close to normal even before this whole thing began.

Fuck normal anyway.

Dean wouldn’t give up what he has now for anything in the world, least of all something so overrated.


End file.
